


Doublethink

by 4b4the22 (orphan_account)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Its a little messed up, M/M, Orwellian Dystopia, Psychological Torture, Unhappy Ending, dystopian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/4b4the22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Burr ought to have looked away but he couldn't. Even at a glance he could tell that this man was a walking death-wish, clearly intelligent, perhaps even more than he, and stubbornly defiant; he ought to be dead years ago, yet by some miracle here he stood" Dystopian AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doublethink

**Author's Note:**

> This was the product of having too much work from my Dystopian Lit class due in a short time span. After having finished an 800 word essay on George Orwell, I decided (for some odd reason) that what i really wanted to do with the rest of my weekend was write a 10k fic blatantly ripping off 1984. A warning to fans of my usual works: this is significantly darker than the shit I usually write, I just wanted to try something new.
> 
> NOTE: this fic has been orphaned. You can still reach the author at thelustiestargonianmaid on tumblr

By any logic, Aaron Burr should've been dead already.

Although he had no way of knowing this to be true, it wouldn’t have been incorrect of him to assume that his name was firmly stamped onto an Empire surveillance list as “intellectually dangerous”, as it had likely been since he was only a boy. The point, of course, was that he wasn't supposed to assume that the Empire kept any such documents at all, let alone that he himself was on one. That was why he was a threat. 

Others of his intellect would have already disappeared by now, having been swallowed up by one of those dark imperial ships and carted away across the black waters of the Atlantic towards an unknown fate. Yet, Burr somehow managed to stay alive, despite all the odds against him. 

While Burr was unquestionably smart, he had been careful not to let himself become an “intellectual”. Men like him always seemed to make the mistake of trying to validate their cleverness through critical thought. They would begin to wonder where those dark ships went, insisting that they remembered the men who got carried off by them. With that would arise a mistrust of His Majesty and they would soon begin blabbing their bright little mouths off about all sorts of blasphemies until they too were aboard one of those ships.

If there was a reason Burr was still alive, it was because he didn't make the same mistake of wondering. What did it matter who the black ships took away? One man couldn't fight the single uniformed entity that was the Empire anyway, even if they knew. It was easier if it didn't matter to him.

His survival was further guaranteed by a simple motto of his own creation which he chose to live by: “talk less, smile more”. It was such a perfect saying for their time that he was surprised the Empire themselves didn't claim it as their slogan; after all, it embodied everything they looked for in an ideal citizen. That is to say, compliant.

It didn’t matter how intelligent a person was, so long as they smiled at His Majesty and spoke only to make idle conversation about how lovely the weather was in their colony or how wonderful the progress of their militia was.

So Burr put on a happy face and did his job. He worked for the News Distribution Centre and was charged with the menial task of translating the colony’s ever-changing laws into terms that could be easily comprehended by the more simple-minded masses. It was a job beneath him but he didn't complain. The Empire was justified in mistrusting him but as long as he continued to prove himself loyal, he would survive.

Day in and day out, he dutifully sat in his cubicle and rewrote laws, changing the dull formal English into shorter phrases that were more personal and entertaining to the average reader. Sometimes he would rewrite them in the form of short fables, the sort that could even entertain school children. These made their Draconian laws seem morally sound to the naïve populace. Although he was never praised for this work, he knew the Empire was using it in local schools and that his labours were contributing to the successful brainwashing of the new generation. He ought not to have been proud of that fact, but somehow, he was. 

Of course, he wasn't proud of it anymore. The knowledge that his writings had become part of the Imperial education program has come to him through his daughter when she'd brought them home from school. At first, he had been pleased that she was reading his work but now that she was gone, he was disgusted with himself for exposing her to what was, essentially, propaganda. Not that he would dare call it that out loud. Truthfully he hadn't even considered it as such until after she'd left home under such mysterious circumstances. Even now he still tried to repress such thoughts.  _ Smile more, _ he told himself. After all, what could he do about it?

Since her disappearance, the cubicle he worked in had become his own personal hell; time slowed down, colour drained from his surroundings, and he would leave each day feeling suffocated and lethargic. It made the evening rallies seem almost like a blessed reprise.

During these rallies, he and the other workers in his office would amass in the courtyard, all looking as dull and gaunt as he did as they exited from their respective cubicles to stand at attention before a large stage. The anthem would play and a group of redcoats (the imperial soldiers) would march to the front of the crowd, keeping an eye on them while the manager of their centre would proceed to a podium and tell them the daily news. It was always the same: the rebel force under the traitorous Washington was still strong, but their own armies were stronger and making great progress. They always seemed to be winning, but the war never seemed to end. Then, the manager would inform them of the new taxes that had been put in place and remind them of their duties to the Empire. 

“Remember,” he told them, “His Majesty has taken on a great burden in managing his colonies. These rebel forces are a blight upon our society who wish to undo all his efforts. His Majesty regrets that these new taxes have inconvenienced some, however he wishes to remind all of you that it is taxes that build great nations. Stay strong in the face of our enemies, loyal citizens, and long may His Majesty reign!”

“Long may His Majesty reign,” the workers repeated in unison. Burr smiled while he said it, as though the words brought him any sort of joy. He envied his colleagues of lesser intelligences who were able to find hope in them.

The man standing next to him had not repeated the phrase. He had only mouthed it. To anyone else it may have looked like he said them, but Burr was close enough to notice. He had never in his entire life seen anyone avoid saying that phrase. Even traitors to the Empire usually had the good sense to repeat them along with everyone else. He should've paid it no mind but shock got the better of him and he made the mistake of glancing over.

The man was about the same age as Burr. He had golden-brown skin and a distinctly feminine face that would've made him seem younger, if not for the dark bags under his eyes or the tight disgusted frown of his mouth. There was something wild about him that Burr had never seen in anyone else before; his dark hair was too long, his stubble was unkempt, and an energy seemed to buzz from him as though he were connected to an electric current.

Burr ought to have looked away but he couldn't. Even at a glance he could tell that this man was a walking death-wish, clearly intelligent, perhaps even more than he, and stubbornly defiant; he ought to be dead years ago, yet by some miracle here he stood, the sheer improbability of his survival even more miraculous than Burrs. He turned to meet Burr's gaze with a glare that sent chills down the other man’s spine.

Burr was a deer in the headlights under the scrutiny of this heretic and found himself unable to tear his eyes away. He had to force himself to turn away before the other man could speak, storming off briskly down the street and praying to some unknown deity that he hadn’t been noticed. This rebel was dangerous and Burr had the sinking suspicion that, in not reporting what he'd seen, he had personally sealed his own fate, metaphorically stamping the wax seal onto his ticket for one of those black ships. 

_ Smile more, _ he repeated to himself frantically.  _ Stay alive. Long may His Majesty reign.  _

* * *

A letter was waiting for him when he got home. Inside was a photo of a young girl in her twenties, his daughter, standing next to the man she had supposedly run off with. In the image they were standing by a field in a temperate country setting. The couple was smiling brightly and holding hands, grinning stupidly like a pair of teenage prom dates. On the back there was a short message:  _ Dear Papa, we are visiting my love’s in-laws down in Virginia. It is beautiful out this time of year. His Majesty has been good to us and may offer us a house out here. Perhaps when we meet again it shall be at our wedding? I look forward to seeing you again. Your Beloved, Theodosia. _

He crumpled the letter in a violent fury and tossed it into the waste basket with more force that was really necessary. Like every other letter they sent him, it was undoubtedly a fake. His daughter hated the country almost as much as she hated His Majesty. Besides, he knew she had her mother's bright, loving eyes, whereas the woman’s in the photo looked as empty as a cardboard cutout. Burr closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before forcing himself to smile once more. Whatever had happened to her, he knew he would never see her again if he picked a fight with the Empire.

When he heard a knock at the door, he nearly jumped out of his skin, breaking out of his reverie and quickly pulling the photo out, trying to smooth it as best he could to make it seem as though he'd never attacked it. A second knock sounded, slightly louder, and he hastily slid it into his desk drawer. He raced to the door, and took a few deep breaths before opening it cautiously.

Much to his horror, he found himself face to face with an imperial soldier, a tall formidable looking man in the standard redcoat who gazed down at Burr coldly, as though he were something unsightly.

Burr was terrified, particularly because he assumed that this man must have come to do a random search his house and would notice the letter or, even worse, his interactions with the man at the rally had been noticed. He immediately jumped to the conclusion that the person he'd met today had been arrested for treason and that now he was a suspect by mere proxy. He knew the Empire didn't need much more of a reason than that to lock him up.

Yet he also knew that the Empire never sent soldiers to take people away. That work was usually done by agents, who could make a person disappear in such a way that only through distant memory would anyone ever know you had existed in the first place.

Much to his relief, the soldier simply introduced himself as Private Mulligan. He said they were looking for a vandal who had been tearing down propaganda posters in the area and handed Burr a police sketch of a man he didn't recognize. He breathed a sigh of relief and assured the soldier that he had not seen this person. He handed the photo back but the private told him to keep it.

“They don't usually let us keep evidence,” Burr told him, wondering if this soldier had forgotten that rule. The man in this drawing would inevitably cease to exist from public records once he was caught, so giving out the sketch could be construed as the spreading of blasphemy, even if they hadn't found the guy.

“It's a new custom the General has ordered,” the soldier explained, “His Majesty wants the citizens to become more involved in the fight against the rebellion.” Then, he added, “Just be sure to burn it by the end of the week.”

Burr accepted the photograph hesitantly and saluted the man with a customary, “long may he reign.”

“Long may he reign,” the soldier repeated, then he winked and turned down the hallway.

Burr did a double-take at that, wheeling around after the soldier to see if he had really seen such behaviour from a member of the imperial militia.  _ Certainly you imagined that. _ He told himself.  _ Imagine! An imperial soldier winking? Absurd. _

Still, after he closed the door, he looked around the room and turned away slightly from the security cameras to look at the police sketch. He turned it over and, sure enough, there was a message written there.

In short scratchy handwriting it read: “ _ If you want your daughter back, come to the wharf tonight and wait beneath the streetlight with the missing bulb. Come alone. -AH _

Burr couldn't say how he knew it was the man from earlier; it was just a feeling he had deep down in his gut. He gazed at the letter in a state of shock, running his hands over the hastily drawn ink stains. He should've looked away when he had the chance. If he had been thinking, he would've reported this rebel right there during the rally. Smiling would do him no good now; he was holding his own death sentence.

He tore up the letter in his fist, sliding the pieces into a wad of toilet paper and flushing them down his toilet. The effort was futile; it was already too late to turn back from this. But he was a survivor by nature and would make every attempt to delay the inevitable. He looked at himself in the mirror and frowned, realizing he barely recognized his own face. With his gaunt features and tired black eyes, he looked almost like a corpse. In his own reflection, he became suddenly aware of the stark contrast between his own featureless visage and that of the energetic, brown-eyed rebel he had seen that morning. He realized, with an ache, that he longed for that life, for that sense of stubborn hope. If he had any honour, he should be fighting for his  _ daughter _ , whom he knew full well had been taken from him by one of those dark ships. If there hadn't been a camera behind his mirror, he would've let himself weep for the wasted years he’d spent in quiet, shameful submission. Instead, he just smiled a grim smile and made his second incredibly stupid decision.

* * *

Burr stood under the broken street lamp for what felt like almost an hour. Although he was cold and rather bored, he still did not believe he had been simply duped. Sure, he considered the possibility that this, perhaps,had been a trick-- a way for the Empire to finally arrest him, but there was no way it was just a mere prank.

The longer he waited, the more he began to anticipate sirens, imagining dozens of masked agents leaping out of the darkness and at shoving him onboard one of those ships out on the horizon to meet his demise. At least he would get the chance to see Theo again. Even if she wouldn’t have a smile like the woman in the photo, at least she would be real and he would be able to look into her eyes and apologize for failing her so disgracefully.

Howev er, the sirens never came. Instead only a man in a brown trench coat walked out of the shadows at the far end of the wharf and approached him, slowly but deliberately. Burr watched him out of the corner of his eye but kept his gaze turned towards the harbour. He lit a single cigarette he had sitting in his pocket.

He knew instinctively that it was the man from the rally before he could even see his face. He stopped next to Burr and followed his gaze out towards the sea. “May I have a cigarette?” He asked in a nasally voice that had a slight lilt to it; an accent Burr did not recognize.

Burr turned out his pockets with an apologetic shrug, but the man just grinned and instead plucked the cigarette out of Burr’s mouth and placed it between his own feminine lips. He gave Burr a cheeky grin as he inhaled deeply, then blew smoke back into Aaron’s face. He should not have found it as attractive as he did.

Burr wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that, thought, and only blinked slightly, keeping his expression neutral. “So you're A.H?” 

“You can call me Alex,” the other man said, taking another long drag from the cigarette. This time he blew it out to shore, then coughed slightly, “I hate this shit,” he admitted, looking at the smoke with derision.

“Then why take mine?”

“To see that look on your face.” He replied with a smirk, then added, “and to remind you that it isn't really your cigarette at all. Nothing is yours, really. Not your smokes, not your house, not your daughter, and not even yourself. Everything belongs to them,” He said, gesturing to a peeling propaganda poster.

“So, do you plan to explain all your heretical ideologies to me through thievery disguised as a bad metaphors?” Burr inquired sardonically.

The man grinned again and put a finger to his lips, giving a quick glance up towards the nearest security camera. He put a hand on Burr’s shoulder and pulled their heads together so closely that their noses almost touched. He expected the Alex to say something, but he didn't. The rebel simply pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and slid it back into Burr’s, “I'll tell you everything you need to know, in private.” He said in a hushed tone. “We’re being watched, after all.”

“What if I don't want to be a part of this?” Burr asked cautiously. “What if I, unlike you, value my life?”

Hamilton patted him on the shoulder. “If you're able to call this a life, then you're free to go back to living it, though I suspect that if you didn’t want to help me, you wouldn’t have come at all. It's a dangerous move for a man on the fence, after all…”

Then, before waiting for Burr to reply, he pulled away, “Long may His Majesty reign.” He said, loudly enough for any nearby microphones to pick up.

“Long may he reign…” Burr repeated out of habit, though still rather dazed from this experience.

Alex turned and parted, leaving Burr in a state of quiet awe. His cigarette now tasted slightly like spices, though he wondered if that was just the other man’s lingering scent. He let the flavour of the other man's mouth simmer on his tongue as he pulled out the slip of paper he had felt Alex slide into his pocket. It had an address written on it.

He threw the paper into the Wharf, knowing full well he wouldn't be able to forget its contents.

* * *

The “Revolutionary Set”, as they called themselves, met in the basement of a government cafe. These sorts of public joints were some of the most surveyed places a person could go, hence they were hiding in plain sight. It was less suspicious, but still rather stupid in Burr’s opinion.

This basement was dank, small, and smelt slightly like old coffee and mice. There were crates everywhere and almost nothing that to indicate it was a base of operations. The café itself was managed by a Frenchman with a surprisingly convincing American accent that Burr didn’t notice was a fake until he was being led by him down beneath the store. This man spoke little in public, but once they were out of earshot, he was actually proved to be quite talkative. He prattled on and on about life in France, the struggles of dealing with English customers, and a plethora of other frivolous topics. He introduced himself as Lafayette and, despite his cheerful demeanor, Burr got the sense he didn't like him very much.

When they reached the basement Burr was met by Alex himself, as well as the Private Mulligan who had come to his door. Mulligan was friendlier than Lafayette, but still clearly didn't trust Burr, telling him little and making no effort to hide the fact that he was watching him closely. They both dismissed themselves as soon as they could once Burr had settled in amongst the old wooden crates and bags of coffee beans.

“They don't come down here much,” Alex explained. He was perched on a crate, beneath a beam of light that fell through the only window down here and scribbled furiously in a journal. He did not look at Burr while he spoke. “The more people coming in and out there are, the easier it is to get your cover blown” he continued, “Lafayette only comes down here for stock and Mulligan gives me reports on military affairs once a week.”

Burr nodded, as though he understood, and sat down on a crate across from him, “you said you could get my daughter back?” He asked, wondering what exactly this rebel expected of him.

Alex shook his head. “Not immediately I can't.”

“What do you mean?” Burr asked, his skin prickling slightly. “Don't you dare tell me you lied about that! I'm risking my entire life on this, you know!”

“You didn't think it would be that easy did you?” The other man retorted with unabashed cockiness. “We’ve all lost loved ones to the Empire. That's why we're fighting with General Washington: to get back what we lost. It doesn't happen overnight, Aaron!”

Burr was fuming. He slapped the book out of the other man’s hands. “So this was all a fucking ploy to make join your stupid rebellion? I still don’t even know if my daughter’s alive!”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Like you thought you'd get her back without joining the rebellion anyway? That's what she tried to do, isn't it? Lafayette saw her name on one of Washington's lists.”

Burr was recoiled at that, surprised that this small group actually had any legitimacy, “You actually met Washington?” He asked, cringing out of habit at a name he had been taught for so many years to hate.

“Only Laf has,” the other man clarified, “He's hiding out in France, that's where they met. The rebellion is stronger out there, they mean to help our forces here when they can employ the help of the French.”

“How many forces are out here?” Burr asked.

“Not sure.” Alex replied, “It's impossible to tell who's friend and who's foe anymore.”

Burr realized with a pang that he had just gotten himself involved with not only heretics, but disorganized ones at that. “So there's only four of us?”

Alex wrinkled his nose. “Everyone is with us, Burr...they just haven't realized it yet.”

* * *

Burr came to the conclusion that not only was Alex a traitor, he may just have been possibly the most dangerous enemy the Empire could have. He was just as smart as Burr, perhaps even more so, but he was a thinker in every sense of the word. The journal he was writing in was only one of massive amounts of texts he had produced that Burr found stuffed amongst the many crates in the basement. Alex was a philosopher, writing long winded texts about the freedoms of mankind and babbling on endlessly about what he believed was the ideal nation. He also wrote numerous battle plans for an army that didn't even yet exist and lectured Burr endlessly about logistics of running their nation once they were free from the clutches of His Majesty. Burr could tell that Alex wanted to be a leader on day; he liked to be heard.

Although he spent much of his free time in the basement, he actually lived in an apartment across the street from the cafe and worked in the same office as Burr, “the propaganda centre” as he called it. He was one of the accountants and, although he hated the work, he was quite skilled with numbers, particularly economics.

They would pass each other in the hallways of the news centre but they took great pains not to speak to one another; at work they were no more than strangers, hardly giving one another a passing glance. During the rallies Alex would listen attentively like every

one else, however he still stubbornly refused to say, “Long may His Majesty reign,” along with the rest of the group, no matter how many times Burr warned him about keeping up appearances.

At first Burr wasn't sure what Alex wanted from him. He would go to the cafe every evening now and simply watch the man write. While he watched, Alex would explain to him, in vivid detail, every plan he had for their new government. At first, Burr listened attentively, but soon he got irritated by some of the man’s more ridiculous suggestions and began to debate with him. These debates grew more frequent and heated each time they met, to the point where once Alex actually flung himself at Burr and wrestled him to the ground.

It was a good fight; Burr managed to deck Alex in the nose but Alex had gotten him just above the eye. When they noticed the blood they just laughed and collapsed against each other, hearts still pumping from the adrenaline. Before Burr had even caught his breath, Alex began the debate with him again. Burr laughed even harder at that, and came to the conclusion that what Alex really wanted from him was a friendly adversary, someone he had to defend his ideals to and who could pick away at every wrap point in his arguments until they were perfect. They liked fighting with one another and it became almost therapeutic; a way for them to release all their frustrations that they had built up over years of subjugation.

Eventually, they came up with even more creative ways to release that anger.

Alex was as much of a fighter in bed as he was in everything he did: all teeth, nails and sharp edges. Burr loved to feel him writhe beneath him, loved to try to pin him down with kisses and all the strength he had in his arms. They were evenly matched but Alex always relented, letting Burr thrust into him as slowly as he wanted, all the while clawing at his back and murmuring unrepeatable things in his ear. They both liked to leave bruises.

One night neither of them went home at all. They slept in a pile of blankets and clothes on the floor and Burr woke up the next morning to see Alex, perched nude on his usual crate with the sunrise pouring in through that small basement window, hitting him like a spotlight and making him glow almost golden in its beams. Even when tired, naked, and dishevelled he still wrote furiously in his journals with that strange focused intensity he always had: as though time were running out. This image burned itself into Burr’s mind like a cattle brand. To him, Alex had become like the rising sun behind him, the shining embodiment of a hope he thought he’d lost long ago.

_ “I love you.” _ Burr whispered dreamily from his spot on the floor, answering that same phrase his partner had cried out to him so many times the night before.

Alex closed his journal, smiled at him, and reached out his arm to pull Burr into a seated position. “Long may we live,” he said, echoing the tone Empire’s slogan.

Burr kneeled down in front of him, grinning, “Long may we reign,” he said sarcastically before swallowing the other man’s cock. Those golden fingers dragged over his head like a crown and for a brief moment Burr was able to believe that he was truly free.

* * *

Perhaps both of them had always known this wouldn't last. Not on the surface, but somewhere, buried deep within each of them, they must have known it was only a matter of time before this brief reprieve ended and the reality of their situation came crashing down upon both of them like the blade of a guillotine.

“Mulligan hasn't made his report yet.” Alexander fretted, seeming more agitated than usual and pacing back and forth around the tiny basement, stepping over Burr in the cramped space.

Burr lay on the pile of blankets where they'd slept on almost every night that week and just watched him, blowing cigarette smoke out of his mouth and watching it briefly shroud his lover in a haze before dissipating into the darkness, “that only means he'll have more intel when he returns,” he said, taking another drag and before handing the butt up to Alex, “he’s been later than this before.”

The other man only glared at him, “I told you not to smoke in here,” he muttered, but grabbed the cigarette anyway and brought it to his own lips, hands shaking, perhaps from the chill. “It's been four weeks now, Aaron,” he whispered, wandering over to the window to breath his smoke outside of it, “I've just got a bad feeling is all…”

Aaron got up to stand next to him, “it'll all be fine,” he assured him, putting an arm around the shivering man, “you'll see, Lafayette’s on his way to France to bring the general and the troops; things are looking up.”

Alex looked up to him with a bemused expression, “Since when did you become such an optimist?” 

Burr shrugged, “I guess I found something to believe in,” he replied, pulling the slender man in for a kiss.

Alex moaned against his lips, pressing his cold trembling body as close to Burr’s as he could. When they pulled apart he wrapped his arms around him and leant his head on Burr’s shoulder, sighing as though his entire body ached. “I just don't want to lose anyone else,” he said, voice muffled by Burr’s neck.

“Who was he?” Burr asked. He had pieced together, from various stories told by Mulligan and Lafayette and by what Alexander mumbled in his sleep, that there had been another boy once, before he had come.

Alex didn't reply at first but after a pause he finally said, “his name was Laurens. He was my first friend here. He was like me; he didn't think this was a way to live. We wrote the first five journals together before they took him away.” He had to speak slowly but he didn't cry; this memory the sort of old wound that never truly healed but that one ceased to feel after enough time had passed. A scar. 

Burr thought about his daughter, “They'll pay,” he whispered, holding Alex tighter and running a hand through his hair.

Alexander pulled away to look at him, wide eyes brimming with urgency. “I need you to promise me, whatever happens to us, you won't let them change you.”

Burr frowned, “Why are you so doubtful all of a sudden?” He asked, surprised by the other man's uncharacteristic despair.

Alex finally broke down. He opened his mouth to speak but only a choking sob came out. He sunk to his knees and Burr dropped down with him, keeping his arm on the other man’s shoulder.

He watched as the once-proud rebel reached a shaking hand into his pocket and pulled out a small note, “it arrived this morning,” he murmured, wiping his nose a little, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

Burr scanned it, recognizing Lafayette's handwriting, as well of the sense of haste in those short scratchy letters:  _ Mulligan has been captured. There is no army yet. It's all too soon Alex. I'm sorry I cannot come home. -L _

Burr's heart sank when he realized what this implied. “They're looking for us, Aaron,” Alex said, elaborating on his thoughts, “there's nowhere left to go.”

He buried his face in Burr’s chest and sobbed in despair, but all Burr could do was pat his back and stare off into the darkness as he came to terms with what all this meant. There was no running from the Empire once you were known; it was only a matter of time now.  _ I'm coming, Theo, _ he thought, wrapping his arms tightly around the last loving face he'd likely ever see.

* * *

They made no effort to run, instead clinging to each other until the redcoats arrived at dawn. Burr remembered struggling. He remembered punching one of the invading officers in the face, while next to him Alex kicked one in the shins. After that, however, all he could remember was the initial impact of the club to the back of his head and then… nothing.

When he woke at last, he was strapped to a white chair in a bright, white room. There was no one around and nothing else in there except the blinding lights above him and the chair he was tied to. He struggled uselessly against the bonds before quickly realizing that they were unbreakable and sinking back down in his seat despondently. He thought guiltily that if he were Alex, he would still be fighting.

Burr wondered if this was one of the dark ships. He didn't feel any of the buoyancy usually associated with being afloat, though the ships were large enough that perhaps they resisted the force of the waves. As with everything in the Empire, it was impossible to know.

It was also impossible to tell what time it was, which he came to realize after what felt like several hours had passed. He kept thinking that someone, anyone, would come in and tell him what was going on but no one ever did. Even when he pissed himself they still didn't come. He was alone for what might've been two days, though it was difficult to tell.

The first company he received was from man in a white lab coat with a small black crown stitched into the lapel. This man ignored every question he asked and simply handed him a small glass of water and a loaf of bread before leaving him again.

More time passed until, eventually, time ceased to pass at all. Burr lost track of how many times he'd seen the man in white. His visits were few and their only purpose seemed to be to serve Burr meagre meals and occasionally to switch his pants. He quickly began to feel himself wasting away.

He had grown so bored that when a monitor finally descended from the roof of the room, he was almost glad for it. He knew this only meant more mind games, but at this point, anything seemed preferable to idleness. An image came on the screen of an animated man, dressed like a general, but with no badges Burr could recognize. “Aaron Burr?” It asked in a voice that had the notable, mechanical, coldness of a pre-recorded message.

“Who are you?” Burr asked, surprised by how hoarse and foreign his voice sounded to him as it ricocheted of the blank walls.

“A friend,” the voice replied, “you may call me the voice of reason you lost.”

“I’m not insane,” Burr retorted, “I've just opened my eyes to see what you people do.”

“And who put that idea in your head?” The voice asked, sounding less and less human with each word, “that little friend of your’s? The man you fancy yourself in love with?”

“I've known since you took my daughter from me.”

“Lies.” the man on the speaker stated, as though this were a fact and not an accusation, “You were loyal, Aaron. You were a model citizen who will now become the tragic example of what happens when a good person falls in with the wrong sort of people.”

There was no use arguing, Burr realized. This man was not real and already knew what he wanted him to say. “So, will you kill me then?” Burr asked almost hopefully, knowing full well they would never let him go and that death would be a blessing compared to wasting away in this empty room.

The man did not answer his question. Instead he posed another one of his own, “you're not really a rebel are you, Aaron?”

Burr did not reply. There was no point, they already knew what answer they wanted.

“Answer me, Aaron,” the voice ordered in the same mechanical drone.

Burr, again, refused to answer. Suddenly the chair he was strapped began to emit a low hum and a few moments later he felt a shock of voltage travel through his body, lighting every nerve in his body aflame and causing him to buckle over with a cry. He wasn't sure how long the shock lasted but he knew he was still screaming well after it had stopped. When the pain dulled he became acutely aware of how exhausted he was and just how hopeless his situation had become; he was at the mercy of a heartless system determined to see him subjugated, even if it killed him.

“That was a warning,” the voice said, “next time it will be less comfortable.”

“You already know I'm a rebel!” Burr hissed, trying to look at anything other than the monitor.

“We know your  _ friend _ was a rebel,” the voice said, emphasizing the word friend just to irritate him, “I'm asking if you were.”

“I wanted my daughter back,” he murmured, “and I wanted to be free.”

“But did you really want everyone to be free?” it asked, “Did you really believe things were truly as bad as your friend said they were? Did you agree completely with his texts and his teachings? Would you have rebelled at all had it not been for him or your daughter?”

“Who's to say?” Burr responded plainly, “perhaps I wouldn't have, but how would I know?”

The man on the monitor did not have a response to that. As was his style, he asked another question: “Are you still an enemy to the empire? Think carefully about your answer and do not lie.”

There was no right response. Burr was, in some ways, complacent, prepared to resign himself to an eternity in this room and obey every order addressed to him, however he also knew he still had something to fight for. He may not have the energy to fight in this chair but every bone in his body still ached for that hypothetical future he'd imagined down in that basement: a bright place, far from this hell, where he and Alex could live out their days in peace, with no one to keep them apart and where his daughter could grow to be the wonderful intelligent creature he'd always expected her to be. No he hadn't given up. “I will fight the Empire till my dying breath,” he replied. His reasons may have been selfish but they were true.

“For whom?” The man asked.

“For Alex.” 

“You ought to choose your friends better,” he said gravely. Then the screen lifted up and the chair buzzed again and suddenly the pain was back, only this time Burr screamed alone.

* * *

Burr had lost his sense of time weeks before, but now he was beginning to lose mind as well. The man in white taped two electrodes to his head, which he realized later could, to some extent, read his thoughts. At first he would receive a shock anytime he would feel angry. Then he started to get them whenever he remembered the past or thought of someone he had once loved. Now he had come to expect the pain anytime he thought too much at all. He desperately wanted to hold on to his sanity but it was getting to be almost impossible.

He was lucky he was a smart man; he learned very quickly how to numb himself so the electrodes could not read him. Now he had managed to almost completely turn off his brain whenever he felt like it. It was hard to do but he found that the trick to it was to tell himself everything he remembered about life beyond this room was merely a dream; his old life, those days in the basement, Alexander’s golden figure bathed in sunrise, they were never real. He removed from himself every sense of reality and, instead, he began to think only in small concepts to keep himself from drifting completely into vagueness. All that his mind understood was that  Alex was hope, his daughter was joy, this room was repression, and the thing on the monitor was his enemy. At least if he couldn't understand his surroundings, he could at least keep his morals intact.

He felt like they were bringing him less and less food. He rarely pissed himself anymore because he rarely drank. Not that he would've noticed at this point; his entire body was in so much pain and his needs so primitive that he couldn't bring himself to care about his own hygiene.

By the time the monitor came back on, he was even beginning to forget his own name.

“Have you given my words some thought?” The man asked.

“I cannot think,” Burr replied

“That is a lie. We can read you. You're thinking of someone right now. Tell me who you're thinking of.”

“Nobody.” The pain that followed was far greater than any he'd felt prior to this. He buckled over with a wail and shook against his bonds with such vigor that they chafed his wrists, nearly drawing blood. When it stopped he remained hunched over, gasping for air with his shoulders heaving.

“Who are you thinking of?” The voice repeated.

“ _ Alex, _ ” Burr finally said, feeling like he had betrayed himself somehow.

“So you still believe that man loved you?” it asked.

Burr nodded.

“Then you are a more disappointingly stupid than we thought. I'll show you what sort of man you put your faith in, then maybe you'll understand just how big of a mistake you've actually made.”

The monitor cut to the inside of a room, like Burr’s but darker. In a similar chair to his he recognized the figure of Alex. This footage must've been old, unless they were treating Alex far better than him, as the other man still seemed to have flesh on his body and his facial hair was still relatively short. He didn't glow like he usually did, however, seeming exhausted and defeated. He barely looked like himself.

“Alex!” Burr called out to him in spite of himself and, queerly enough, the other man looked up, though not directly at him.

The same mechanical voice that had spoken to him just moments ago came out of the speakers, this time addressing Alex, “you see now, how we punish insolence?”

His lover had clearly just been shocked, just like Burr had so many times before. It made his stomach churn. “I see a bunch of pathetic, power-hungry, maniacs who don't even have the decency to torture me to my face!” Alex shouted stubbornly between gasps, flexing his wrists against their bonds.

“Give up this fight, Alex, it's beneath a man of your cleverness,” the voice told him.

“Not even from my fucking grave!” He shouted back. Another shock passed through him and he tensed up, biting his lip till it bled to keep from screaming and clutching at the arms of the chair until his knuckles turned white. Alex’s tolerance for pain was impressive but Burr could tell that the his resolve would not last much longer. Burr shook against his own bonds in response, cursing his helplessness and wondering fearfully how much voltage a human body could tolerate before it was cooked from the inside the men they executed on live television.

“We can offer you something better than freedom, Alexander,” the voice said, “all you need to do is tell us who really forced you to take up arms against your benevolent leaders.”

“I've already told you it was my decision,” Alex replied between breaths, “there's nothing you can offer me because that is the truth.”

“Truth is subjective,” the voice said, “but if you truly think you are guilty, then I must warn you that the punishment will be severe.”

Something must've happened on the other side of that room because all of a sudden Alex’s eyes widened in the direction of something beyond the range of the camera. “You wouldn't dare,” he gasped, “I swear if you so much as lay a finger on h–” he was silenced by another zap.

While Alex convulsed another man limped into the frame, led by two more men in white lab coats. This man could barely stand, he was emaciated and weak, more of a ghost than flesh and blood. “ _ Laurens _ …” Alex whispered when the machine stopped, gazing towards him with a look of desperation. 

The other man lifted his head to look at him just as one of the men next to him stuck him with a syringe, injecting him with a substance Burr couldn’t discern from his angle. Immediately Laurens fell to the floor with a yelp, coughing and twitching as what he assumed to be a poison filled him. Alex screamed at that more than he had during the previous tortures, thrashing so wildly in his chair that it began to rock. “You sick fucks!” He shrieked, “stop it! You're killing him!”

“Who betrayed you?” the voice on the monitor repeated, unconcerned by other man’s panic.

“It was my fault!” Alex cried.

“If it's your fault, then he will die” the man told him, “but remember: the truth can be changed. Give us another name and we may just believe you.”

Alex kept thrashing, his eyes fixed on Laurens with a look of despair that almost crushed Burr, those eyes once so full of hope we're now ghastly as they contorted with rage at the sight before them. “It was Aaron!” He cried out madly, “this was all him! He seduced me! I never would’ve rebelled if not for him!”  _ So that's what they wanted him to _ say. Burr could see in his eyes that Alex wasn't consciously lying; in his fear and pain he seemed to truly believe those words. Burr couldn't blame him, his mental state was hardly any better. 

“What do you want me to get out of this bullshit!” Burr shouted back at the monitor, “you told him to say that!” There was no response.

Apparently Alex had given them the answer they wanted. One of the men in white approached Laurens and injected him with another fluid, an antidote, Burr supposed, and then they left him there, lying on the floor. Alexander’s bonds snapped open and he threw himself towards the man on the floor, lifting his face up so he could gaze at the limp body. “I'm so sorry John,” he whispered, burying his face in the other man's hair, “I’m so fucking sorry.” The other man blinked awake and Alex let out a cry of joy, pressing their lips together and kissing this other man with wild abandon. Burr felt his stomach twist.

“Now you see the truth?” The voice said, “he never loved you, he only meant to get this other man back.”

“This is staged,” Burr said, refusing to believe that Alex would genuinely betray him, “you played with his emotions and you tortured that out of him! How can I even be sure that was Laurens? You've fucked with his mind just like you've fucked with mine! You won't get a rise out of me with this!”

“Don't you recall how his friends talked about them?” The man's voice asked him, “This is why they never trusted you; they knew he was still in love with another and they liked him better.”

Burr tried to think of a way to refute that but he couldn't. “What does it matter?” he muttered. “We're both dead anyways. This changed nothing. Besides, you know this was all his doing, I hardly did a thing.”

“How could I know that, Aaron?” the man asked, gravely, “I asked you if you were a rebel and you said you were. Now the man you claim to love tells us the same thing. As far as I know you are the one who must be punished.”

Panic hit him as he realized what the other man was implying, “but you know I did not!” Burr shouted.

“I'm afraid I know nothing,” the voice replied and the avatar on the screen shook his head, “Your lover has testified against you, thus you shall receive his punishment instead.”

A feeling of dread filled Aaron as the monitor lifted back up again without another word. There was a silence before the panels on the wall in front of him lifted away to reveal a window looking into a small steel plates room the size of a closet. 

Huddled in the darkness, there sat a small girl, no more than twenty, whose eyes brightened when they met Burr's. Her mother’s eyes.

_ “No!”  _ Burr shouted yanking at his bonds. The relief in his daughter's eyes turned to terror as water began to spill from the roof. “I didn't do anything!” Burr shouted as Theo began to bang against the window, calling out to him through the soundproof glass, “she's just a child!”

“Tell that to Alexander, when you see him next,” the voice said and the intercom shut off.

Burr had never fought harder against anything in his life, screaming and thrashing, blood dripping from his wrists as he pulled them against his bonds. There was no use. He watched in horror as she struggled against the water, unable to stop it or even tell her it was alright. At some point Burr could not even hear own screams yet he kept yelling and struggling until long after her lips went blue and her eyes closed forever. 

Then, they made him just watch her float there, torturing him with the horrific image of how peaceful she looked now: her limbs relaxed and her hair spread out in the water like that of a mermaid.

He cried himself empty in the days, maybe weeks, that followed, sobbing until his body became a hollow shell, unfeeling and broken. It was as though a hole had been dug out of him.

If there was a reason Aaron Burr was still alive, he could no longer remember exactly what it was. As the moments ticked away in his cell, he began to pray softly to himself almost every waking moment that they'd finally kill him. He realized, during this solitude, that it was hope and love that had kept him down here for this long and that if he continued to fight this system, they would only prolong his suffering. For them to at last execute him, he would have to stop feeling like he still owed anything at all to Alexander and his pointless cause. 

Alex was no longer hope. Nothing was really hope. 

He smiled an empty smile. One man could not really fight this system. There was no use in hating the Empire when it was not one person, but rather a mere concept. This was the way of thinking that he simply had been too insane to appreciate in his first life, in the days before he came down here. He gave up and let himself love the king, let himself love the Empire for showing him the truth and for perhaps even having the mercy to execute him. It was easier this way. As for the hate in his heart he decided to direct it at something tangible.

By the time his suffering finally ended, his brain had become beaten down and rebuilt towards a single goal: killing the man who had caused it all

* * *

The sun was bright when he at last woke up in his own bed. The golden rays of light that shone through his window illuminated his room, revealing it to be just as he'd left it. At the back of his mind, the way the sunlight fell through the blinds reminded him of an old memory, a feeling that he could no longer express, as it was too far away from him now. They had begun to feed him properly in those last few days and he realized they intended to release him. This was actually a common process, the man on the intercom had explained; now that he was a loyal citizen to the crown he would be permitted to enjoy his final days in their wonderful colony before they would decide, on a whim, to execute him.

Somehow they had made it so that everything was just as he left it. He still had his job, his clothes, and all his old letters from his daughter. The only thing that was different was a thin layer of dust that seemed to cover everything in his apartment, as well as the loaded pistol he found in his pocket that he didn't remember owning.

He returned to work as though no time had passed and told everyone he had simply taken a vacation. No one told him how long he had been gone. He ought to have been relieved but he wasn't, not because they still meant to kill him, that didn't bother him. The issue was the hate that still ate away at the remainder of his consciousness like a parasite on his very soul. Although he was proud to be serving the Empire once again, he kept wrapping his hand around the gun in his pocket and longing for the satisfaction of shooting it right through that fucker’s scull. He didn’t even know why he wanted to kill the man, at some point the reasoning behind it had become lost, he just knew it needed to be done.

Two weeks after his release, he woke up in the early morning from a strange nightmare he couldn’t describe. As though guided by an unseen force, he decided to take a walk.

He wandered through the streets of New York in a haze, though purposely heading in the direction of the harbour. There he noticed a lamppost with the missing bulb and, next to it, a young man in a long brown coat, who was leaning over the wharf, his dark hair blowing around his face like some wild, untamed beast.

Burr thoughts burned, hot and angry. He approached the man steadily and leaned over next to him. Their positions were so perfectly mirrored and their statures so shockingly similar that from behind they looked almost like brothers.

“The weather is shit,” the golden skinned man commented, keeping his brown eyes fixed on the distant sun rising up over the horizon. It was beautiful weather but Burr understood what he meant.

“It could be worse,” Burr replied.

The other man nodded, “at least the Empire remains strong,” he replied, the comment was honest, though he said it numbly.

“Long may the His Majesty reign,” Burr agreed in a similarly vacant tone. They were both liars. Even through the calmness off his tone Burr could sense the other man’s agitation, a bristly hate that simmered in the air between them as they waited tensely for each other to make a move. 

They both reached into their pockets to pull out the pistols at the same time, each drawing them in a single fluid movement, as though they had practiced it over and over again in anticipation for this very moment. Burr pressed the tip of his against Alex’s temple, and the other man mirrored that action. The both glared at each other in fury, panting slowly as though the sudden action had exhausted them. A stalemate.

“This is your fault,” Alex hissed, “you're a corruption, a blight, take me out if you wish it would be an honour to die if I could drag you down with me!”

“I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of killing me, you filthy liar,” Burr snarled, tightening his grip on the trigger, “it will be a pleasure to kill you, Alex, and I intend to live through it, if nothing else to watch you die as she did!”

At the mention of his the man's expression changed, “Wait,” he asked, looking suddenly lost, “Who are you?”

“The man whose daughter you killed, you little shit!” Burr replied, the blood pulsing in his head. He couldn't recognize the face of the man in front of him. Beyond his pistol he could only see Theo’s eyes, glazed with fear as her lips turned blue.

The gears in Alex’s mind continued to turn as though oblivious to his accusation, “Aaron, isn't it?” He asked, then he looked up sadly, “I didn't kill her, Aaron, I never would…”

“I can't believe you,” Burr said, distressed. He thought he should but he just couldn't remember why. He no longer knew why he wanted to kill the man nor why he somehow believed him. His head spun and he felt sick.

“I didn't kill her,” Alex repeated, “not any more than you killed him, I suspect.”

Burr said nothing. His grip slackened on the gun and he felt hopelessly lost. He searched the recesses of his mind desperately for an answer, trying to find familiarity in those brown-eyes but he could not. He could remember eyes of that colour, from a moment long ago, but those eyes had been fiery while the ones before him were vacant. 

“ _ Aaron _ ,” Alex said, putting some affection behind the name, “if you can't remember me then that means they've won.”

That point hit Burr hard. He looked at Alex, staring at him hard and devoting every neutron in his brain towards trying to feel something towards him. All he managed to remember was a vision of a golden man, backlit by a rising sun that made him glow and illuminate the depths of a darkened cellar. The lighting was too harsh to make out his features but is was still beautiful. Unfortunately, it only lasted a moment and Burr could not convince himself that he hadn't imagined it.

He signed as the memory slipped from his grasp before he could make sense of it, “I think they already have…” he replied at last, his head sinking a little in defeat. His mind was too broken to hold onto it all; a veritable storm of conflicting thoughts he could not validate.

Keeping one hand on his gun, Alex gave a weak smile and reached out to touch Burr’s arm, “They don't have to,” he said, “they have tried to take everything from us, but they can't destroy us completely. They want us to die subjugated, but we can still fight, Aaron! Till our dying breath!” He removed his hand from Burr’s shoulder and held it out, as if to welcome him into the afterlife.

Burr took his left hand off his own weapon and gripped Alexander's tightly. He still couldn't remember who exactly the other man was, but he also couldn't remember why he hated him. If anything he felt a strong sense of gratitude, as if this man had made him see something he hadn't before.

The gazed at each other one last time, each wishing they could know what exactly it was that they had lost. It was no use, time was running out.

“Perhaps we will meet on the other side?” Alex suggested, giving one last look out towards the sea.

“Perhaps we shall,” Burr replied softly, keeping his eyes fixed on the face in front of him.

They turned back towards each other and Alex gave a nod, closing his eyes tightly as the two shots resounded across the vast emptiness of the harbour. Burr kept his open, making sure that his final sight upon this mortal plane was that of the sunrise lighting up the loose strands of the other man’s hair as a bullet pierced both their heads.

Burr did not let out a single sound. As he slipped away into unconsciousness, all he could do was smile as a peace settled over his broken soul like a wave, relaxing every tense nerve in his body and calming him with the realization that the fight was over.

_So this is the freedom you told me about, Alex?_ _You were right, it was worth fighting for._

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to Nat for helping me with the hell this was to edit you're a blessing.


End file.
